Too Scot to Handle

by Grace Burrowes

  The children were professionals, and what did it say about London society that their skills had been learned so well and at such a young age?

  Windows elsewhere in the mansion went dark, the alley grew quiet, and footmen extinguished the garden torches. The space between Colin’s shoulder blades itched, and he sent up a prayer that Anwen was dreaming peacefully in her bed.

  Joe touched Colin’s sleeve again, and praise be, the lamp in Montague’s bedroom had gone out. Colin rose, and Joe yanked hard on his coattail, pulling Colin back into the shadows.

  Joe shook his head and pointed to John coming up the alley.

  “You’re in luck,” John whispered. “Montague was too soused to go out to the clubs with the other gents. He’s gone to bed, and that means his valet won’t be waiting up for him in the dressing room. Give it another ten minutes, though, and recall that some drunks sleep awfully light.”

  The considered wisdom of the boys was that Montague wouldn’t keep the money anywhere but in his own rooms, which sat across a corridor from Lady Rosalyn’s apartment. If Colin had to make a quick escape, he was to go through her sitting room—unoccupied in the middle of night—and over her balcony to the balcony below, and thence to the garden.

  Any hue and cry from Montague’s room would likely start a search on the opposite side of the house from Colin’s escape route.

  More lights dimmed in more windows, and the grooms wished each other good night.

  Joe kept a hand on Colin’s sleeve, until Colin was ready to burst from the bushes and stand beneath Montague’s window demanding the money.

  Silence spread, not simply quiet. Not a carriage passed, not a breeze stirred.

  Joe let go of Colin’s sleeve and punched his arm.

  “Take your time,” John warned. “Haste has put many a man in Newgate. If you get in trouble, you know what to do, and we’ll make a ruckus, just like we planned.”

  Colin cuffed John gently on the back of the head. “If there’s trouble, you take off like the hounds of hell are after you. You promised.”

  “Go on with ye,” Dickie said. “Damned sun will be up in no time.”

  Colin wanted to leap over the Montague garden wall and sprint over to the house, but he’d been taught better. Saunter, stroll, blend in, be a footman who couldn’t sleep, a groom missing his sweetheart.

  Getting into the house was appallingly easy, and the boys had drilled Colin on how to search the room, checking a few obvious locations first—Win’s jewelry box, his wardrobe, the table beside his bed, beneath the bed and in the clothespress.

  Through it all, Montague lay snoring on the mattress, one pale foot extended from beneath the sheets. He stank of cigar smoke and an excess of spirits, and snuffled occasionally in his sleep.

  Some drunks sleep awfully light.

  On that remembered admonition, Colin began searching the dressing room, a frustratingly complicated space. Spare boots, hatboxes, slipper boxes, glove boxes—the money could have been anywhere.

  The trick, Tom had explained, was to consider the dressing room like a map, and to explore every corner of the map according to a systematic grid, level by level. The money was there somewhere, and finding it was simply a matter of thoroughness and dedication.

  An hour later, Colin heard a wagon jingle up the alley—the milkman, possibly.

  He was running out of time, and hadn’t found the money. Doubts plagued him, for maybe Montague hadn’t stashed the money in his room, maybe Montague hadn’t taken the money, maybe Montague had enlisted the aid of his friends, and they had the money, or possibly—

  Beyond the dressing room, a door clicked open and faint light chased the shadows. Colin dodged behind a rack of tailcoats and silently moved two pairs of tall boots before him—the boys had rehearsed even this scenario with him. Soft footsteps sounded on the bedroom carpet and then the dressing room door opened.

  * * *

  “He should be out of there by now,” Tom said, for the fourth time. “I’m going in.”

  The urge to storm the house, to see for himself that Lord Colin hadn’t been taken up by the watch, was nearly overwhelming. The money didn’t matter, the repairs to the orphanage didn’t matter, but that his lordship remained safe mattered very much.

  “You sit still,” John said, keeping his voice down. “We promised Lord Colin we’d keep a lookout, and not go into the house.”

  A cat yowled on the garden wall, the sound ugly and loud in the darkness.

  “He’ll manage well enough,” Dickie said. “Taught ’im everything we know, didn’t we?”

  Dickie sounded worried rather than jocular. A hasty plan and a few warnings wasn’t enough education to keep a proper gent safe on his first venture into housebreaking.

  “I’m going in,” Tom said, rising from among the bushes at the side of the mews. “He’s been gone too long. Morning will be here before we—”

  Joe hauled him back down into the darkness and pointed to the house. “B-bollocks.”

  A light, dim but distinct, shone through Montague’s window. Somebody was stirring about with a shuttered carrying candle, and Lord Colin was doomed to swing for sure.

  * * *

  Anwen couldn’t sleep, and the two times she’d dozed off, she’d woken with a start, dread making her heart pound.

  Colin was searching the Montague household for the money, or possibly he’d already been found out, the watch called, the magistrate’s office involved.

  Or he might have the money, in which case getting the funds back to the orphanage unobtrusively presented an equal challenge.

  She got up, put on her robe and slippers, and made her way through the darkened house to the conservatory, where lovely memories could keep her company. She woke up on her favorite sofa in the world, pink streaking the eastern sky, and her heart once again pounding with dread.

  * * *

  “You looked inside his boots?” Tom asked.

  “Every pair,” Lord Colin replied wearily. “After Lady Rosalyn made her little raid for his spare change, I also went through all of Montague’s coat pockets, I checked every glove box, under the bed, the wardrobe, everywhere.”

  “If his lordship says he made a proper job of it,” John muttered, “then he made a proper job of it. The money weren’t there.”

  “But Montague took it,” Dickie said, sounding whiney. “We know he took it. He’s a rotter, and a liar, and he took the money.”

  They had congregated in the hayloft of the stable behind the orphanage, and light was beginning to fill the eastern sky. Tom had had longer nights, but none more disappointing.

  “He’s a canny rotter.” Lord Colin stood and brushed straw off his breeches. “If he did take the money, he put it somewhere other than his own rooms. He must suspect Lady Rosalyn occasionally helps herself to his loose coins.”

  “When would he ’ave had time to stash the money any place besides his house?” John asked, flopping back into the straw. “You said he came here with you to drop off the money. Hitchings sent him on his way after you left. He had to have taken the money right after that, and then where would he hide it? We looked all over the orphanage, including the empty wing. The clubs wouldn’t have been open that late and you said none of Montague’s friends were with him. The money has to be where he lives.”

  Tom had been over the same sequence of events in his mind, time after time, and had reached the same conclusion. The money had to be at the Montague mansion, which was a bloody damned big place. An army of thieves would need a week to search the house properly, and that assumed it was empty ’round the clock.

  Which it bloody well wasn’t.

  “We’re tired,” Lord Colin said, “and arguing in circles. I thank you all for your help—I’d be watching the sunrise from the windows of Number Four Bow Street, but for you four. I can try again tonight, assuming Montague hasn’t started up a hue and cry.”

  “He’s Montague,” Tom said. “He’ll be tattling to Miss Anwen’s duke, and
then the game’s up. If a duke starts sniffing about, the newspapers will come trotting along behind him, and we’re for the mines.”

  “Or worse,” John said. “I’m scared of the dark myself. Don’t fancy a turn in the mines.”

  He’d never admitted that before, though Tom had long since figured it out. A loathing of being shut up in small dark places all night was part of what sent John on his rambles.

  Lord Colin started down the ladder. “Nobody is going down the mines, but you raise a good point. Montague will bestir himself to attend services this morning, and he’ll doubtless ask for a moment of Moreland’s time. I have never been so frustrated, furious, and ready to do violence in my life, and yet my best course at this point is to show up at services myself, my fine baritone ready to sing praise to my Creator.”

  Tom went down the ladder next, followed by Dickie and John. Joe came down last, and they stood with Lord Colin in a circle, failure filling the shadowy silence.

  “Get some rest,” Lord Colin said. “Hitchings will be distracted, but go about your day as normally as you can. I’ll make another try tonight, assuming the looming scandal hasn’t sent my dearest lady—”

  He stopped and scrubbed a hand over his face, an odd expression creasing his tired features.

  “What?” John asked. “You look like you seen a ghost up in the rafters.”

  “Or an angel,” Dickie said.

  “Bollocks,” Lord Colin said softly. “I know where the money is.”

  “N-now,” Joe said. “Get it, n-now. Best time. Services.”

  Lord Colin left off studying the hay mow. “Break into the house during Sunday services?”

  “That’s brilliant,” John said, shoving Joe’s shoulder. “Staff will lay about after being run off their feet last night, family will clear out for a good two hours, and nobody ever looks up. Da always said that.”

  “Right before the runners got him,” Dickie retorted.

  “Get up to the balcony now before it’s full daylight,” Tom said, “and wait until the family leaves for services, then find that money.”

  His lordship was exhausted, he had a streak of dirt across his cheek, and he was overdue for a shave. He looked like a thief, a bloody worried thief.

  “It could work,” he said, staring into the shadowed garden. “I know exactly where to look.”

  Joe’s suggestion was his lordship’s only chance. John and Dickie’s expressions said they thought so too.

  “I’ll need you to deliver a message to Miss Anwen,” Lord Colin said, “without being seen, before she leaves for services. Can one of you do that?”

  “Aye.” All four boys spoke in unison, even Joe.

  * * *

  Colin’s note said Anwen was to detain Montague in the church yard for as long as possible.

  She tossed the scrap of paper into the fire, and rejoiced that Colin was at liberty to send notes. She despaired that he hadn’t found the money.

  “Ready to go?” Charlotte asked, strolling into Anwen’s room without knocking.

  “I am, and thank heavens the rain hasn’t come back. Are we walking?”

  “I’d like to, though Aunt and Uncle might want to take the coach.”

  St. George’s was only a few streets over, and most of Mayfair graced its pews. Many a Windham had spoken vows there, and the Montagues were regular fixtures.

  “You didn’t sleep well,” Charlotte said. “Neither did I. Maybe we can catch a nap during the sermon.”

  “Or maybe I’ll see Lord Colin.”

  Except she didn’t. Not Colin, not Rhona or Edana, not a single member of the MacHugh household was in evidence, while Win Montague and Lady Rosalyn were in their customary pew, elegantly attired, and quietly greeting neighbors as the congregation assembled.

  Anwen endured. As the service went on and on—why must the hymns have so blessed many verses?—she consoled herself with the thought that every extra verse was another minute when Winthrop Montague had to be dutifully pretending interest in the proceedings, exactly as Colin needed him to do.

  As the organ’s final notes sounded, and the gossiping began in earnest, Anwen seized her courage with both hands and marched up to Montague.

  “Miss Anwen, good day,” Montague said. “A most fetching bonnet, don’t you agree, Lady Rosalyn?”

  His complexion was positively gray, his golden curls lank. Rosalyn, by contrast, was a vision in pink and cream lace, her reticule and bonnet trimmed to match.

  “Very becoming,” her ladyship said. “Truly it is, but you’ll excuse me, for I see Baron Twillinger trying to get my attention.”

  Rosalyn withdrew on a soft rustle of exquisite fashion, though she’d been very nearly rude.

  “You mustn’t make anything of it,” Montague said. “She’s concerned you’ll ask her when she’ll pay her vowels from your little card party. Dear Roz plays whist with more enthusiasm than skill, I’m afraid. Not much point in collecting the money now, though, is there?”

  He was very sure of himself or he was baiting Anwen. Probably both, the varlet.

  “That is a decision I am not yet called upon to make,” Anwen said. “Shall we step outside, Mr. Montague?”

  The church sat directly on the street, with only the front terrace, steps, and walkway separating it from vehicle traffic. The congregation arranged itself along the walkway in twos, threes, or small groups. Others wandered off to the square, where more privacy was to be had.

  “My dear, you look fatigued,” Montague said. “I hope you were not kept awake by our little contretemps at the orphanage?”

  Colin had asked one thing of her: Detain Montague at all costs.

  Anwen longed to detain him by doing him a severe injury. “It’s about that situation that we must speak. I’ve had a chance to consider my choices and will want certain assurances written into the settlements.”

  Montague tipped his hat to the Duchess of Quimbey, who did not appear to recognize him.

  “You are planning to be difficult,” he said when the duchess was out of earshot. “I stated my position clearly yesterday. You do not dictate terms, you do not bargain, you do not think to manipulate me with conditions and concessions. Time is of the essence.”

  The church was emptying, congregants filling the walkway, and Anwen refused to lower her voice.

  “The welfare of twelve innocent boys must come before our selfish priorities, Mr. Montague, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  “Them again. If you want urchins to dote on, I will see you well supplied. London has a surfeit of wretched children on offer and always will, though I should hope you’d be more interested in doting on our offspring.”

  Flora Stanbridge, one of the biggest gossips ever to stumble into her partner’s arms on the dance floor, stopped not two yards away.

  Anwen patted Montague’s cravat—let dear Flora report that public familiarity. “Surely you intend to have a word with my uncle before the topic of offspring becomes appropriate to discuss, Mr. Montague?”

  Montague removed a speck of lint from his sleeve and flicked it in Flora Stanbridge’s direction. “Where is Moreland? I do need to have a word with him. You’re quite correct about that.”

  Oh, Colin. “If you intend to raise the matter of a courtship with Moreland, you’d best not do it on a public street.”

  Montague smiled at that riposte, his expression so doting it made Anwen queasy. “Excellent point, my dear. Let me take Rosalyn home, and I’ll drop around directly.”

  Colin’s note hadn’t said anything about detaining Lady Rosalyn, and Anwen hadn’t the patience to deal with her ladyship in any case.

  “Don’t tarry at home,” Anwen said. “Set her ladyship down, and pay your call straight away, for Uncle has commitments this afternoon.”

  “Don’t worry,” Montague said, patting Anwen’s cheek with his gloved hand. “My business with Moreland is urgent, and I’m glad you’ve made the wiser choice.”

  He bowed and took himself off, while Anw
en muttered every curse she knew in Welsh.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “One feels such pity for those not to the manor born,” Winthrop Montague said, steering his phaeton out of Hanover Square. “They’re bound to encounter difficulties that might have been avoided if they’d kept to their places.”

  Delightfully serious difficulties in the case of Colin MacHugh.

  “You’re trying to sound deep again,” Rosalyn replied. “I like you better when you’re being witty. Do you refer to Lord Colin?”

  “The very one. He’s about to land in a deal of trouble over the missing money.”

  Rosalyn shot Win a peevish look, as if he were being simple rather than philosophical. “You should let it drop, Win. Money is vulgar. Orphans are tiresome. Close the place down and get back to making stupid wagers with your stupid friends.”

  The day was fine, though Rosalyn had always disliked sunny weather. God help the poor dear, she might become afflicted with a freckle.

  “How much did you lose?” Win asked. “You can tell me.”

  “Too much, but I’ll come right. I always do.”

  True enough, and Win never inquired too closely about how she managed it, though Rosalyn’s maid was ever busy altering this dress or pawning that one.

  “I shall offer for Anwen Windham,” he said, “and she’ll accept me. Let that brighten your mood, sister dear. First thing tomorrow, I’ll have the Scottish bumpkin arrested, though you mustn’t mention that to anybody. If Anwen is willing to see reason about a special license, I will ask Papa to plead for Lord Colin to be transported rather than hanged. I think that’s being very gracious.”

  Rosalyn twitched her skirts away from Win’s boots. “This isn’t a game, Winthrop. A man’s life is at stake, and you haven’t even proved Lord Colin took the money. Why can’t you just let it blow over? You said the orphanage still has the jewels, so the children are better off. Nobody needs to know about a few coins going missing.”

  Rosalyn wasn’t prone to argument when charm would suffice, but she was in a mood about something. But then, her idea of a few coins was most people’s idea of a small fortune.